


Last Blues We’re Ever Gonna Have

by korynn



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 11:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13612002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korynn/pseuds/korynn
Summary: Mickey Milkovich holds his cards tight to his chest. So tight, that sometimes there’s no room for him to even look down and read what those cards say.Fate keeps trying to tell him something.He’s trying to tell them they can’t be happy, but he was just a player, not the dealer in this game of poker.(ABO au/rewrite)





	Last Blues We’re Ever Gonna Have

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% written on an iPhone at the wee hours of the morning after too many times crying over a handful of scenes. 
> 
> I haven’t watched s8 at the time of chapter 1’s posting, don’t shoot. 
> 
> Title from Fall Out Boy’s “Bishop Knife Trick”, and their whole album MANIA is a huge influence on this. 
> 
> This will likely get edited to hell or abandoned, whichever comes first. 
> 
> Sorry if I make you cry. 
> 
> Enjoy the ride.

It’s Kash’s fault they don’t know at first. Fucker just had to shoot him over a Snickers bar. (They both know it’s because of Ian, but the cops didn’t need to know a married middle aged man was heartbroken over a 15 year old moving on...)  
Juvie means government mandated meds, check ups and suppressants that make Mickey want to pull his own fingernails out they make him so sick, but he doesn’t realize what sort of pills they’re dumping into him. Painkillers, for his leg? Antibiotics? He doesn’t bother to ask, just suffers through puking his guts out and shivering with loneliness.

Ian’s visit makes his teeth clench, makes his eyes flash to the fingers on glass and he lets out a slow exhale once he’s back in his cell - fuck, _what the fuck_ was in that chili for lunch? Another bout of puking, fucking grateful for commissary 7-Up and saltines to settle whatever they’d given him.

Teeth clenched, book propped on bent knees, the block kids don’t bother him much. It’s only until a younger one, a soft looking kid who reminds him too much of the Gallagher tribe, makes a low noise at the open gate of his cell, that Mickey considers adding some time to his sentence. But the words that follow have his stomach twisting. “Can I,” the kid pauses, swallows audibly, chubby cheeks flushing dark as he can’t meet Mickey’s glare. “Can I read something? You...my mom, she. _Smell_.” His voice drops to a whisper and he looks horrified by the admission, and Mickey just slowly blinks, trying to put it together. Shrugging even as he feels a chill of nausea sweep through him, Milkovich rolls to sitting, giving space and silently gesturing the kid to sit. Book dropped in the kids lap. “Milkovich.”

“Paris.”

Paris (Blake, he finds out later, as he opens up) is in here for assault. For reacting to a hate crime. For having two moms, even if they’re the right sub genders. Even if Paris is theirs and- Mickey tunes it out when he realizes his being gay might- maybe he’ll present alpha still, be able to fool Terry long enough to...

Mickeys fingers twist in stiff sheets and he doesn’t think about how Gallagher might present, what that might—

Ian presents while Mickey’s in juvie, while Mandy is rolling in his bed looking for a pencil. One hour, he’s blushing and awkward as she’s asking about celebrities, the next he’s snarling at Lip for grabbing Mandy’s feet as he normally did to be a nuisance. The grabbing. Not the snarling. Ian surprises even himself, and he apologizes for days for freaking them all out.

Lip just tilts his head, wonders out loud how this will change things.

“Things”, Ian doesn’t get, until there’s a Mickey bouncing shoulders between Ian and Mandy weeks later and Ian flares again, want burning like a hot spike down his spine. Garbling out a goodbye, Ian doesn’t stick around to watch Mandy press her cheek to Mickey’s shoulder, breathe in and sigh. “Mick...”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do, because his eyes catch on red hair and laugh lines. Puberty was treating his boy well, and god, did that make his nerves burn, come alive under skin left chilled by detention centers.

They couldn’t hold off on seeing each other again, throwing bags over fences and rattling chain link in dugouts as Ian’s a little high, a lot buzzed, and certainly not thinking about the way his hands fit on hips or that Mickey’s shoulders practically beg for the scrape of his teeth. It’s easy to fall back into the role of peer pressured horniness, of Mickey’s smirk going straight to his dick and odd thoughts of licking those smug eyebrows off the older mans face go drifting with the first pleasured exhale.

Lip enjoys watching them dance around one another, makes bets with himself on when they’ll crack. Who’ll speak up first about the sudden shift in dynamic. Where Mickey’s body betrays his face with how much he craves Ian’s touch, when they constantly bark at one another but Ian keeps shadowing and laughing at every verbal jab. Lip knows something happens, sees instinct override everything for weeks and they get...they must get foolish, because Ian’s panicking. Lip’s honestly expecting him to come for clinic money first, after pills or the like, but worried requests for Frank out of the pair make brows raise and shoulders lift in shrugs.

When Mickey goes back the second time, spitting piss and vinegar all through booking and court, the nurse looks pitying as she fills out his chart. Gentle hands make him cringe while she fixes up where the pig got a few hits of his own in, but she’s making worried noises about whatever his piss test brought back and looking so damn guilty. “Lady, come on, tell me what the fuck the issue is.”

She blanches, he jerks his chin forward and leans as far as his cuffed arms will let him, shoulders protesting and toes pressing against laminated concrete. “Speak the fuck up.” He demands, mouth curling in distaste and he wishes he could scratch his lip, motion more instead of bang heels against metal chair legs.

“Mikhailo-“

“Mickey.” He corrects, and she sighs before continuing. “Mickey. When did you present?”

He blinks, smacks lips, wonders where she’s going with this. “I haven’t. Figured beta, nothing wrong with that.”

She frowns, he frowns, it’s a circle of scowling until she flips through his file, and he sees dates that are closer to his first stint in here, which has him jerking his chin again at her. “Wait. _Wait_. You saying you guys fucked me up or something. That I’m not a beta?”

The nurse picks at her nails, and Mickey can’t stand the nerves. “Jesus Fuck lady, tell me!” He snarls, hisses, trying not to get the attention of guards. Her shoulders lift before she finally meets his eyes, and he knows-he-he can see it. She’s going to pull the rug out before he can even grab onto anything.

“Mickey. You’re an omega. A pregnant one.”

His breath leaves him in a swoosh, his shoulders nearly dislocate as he jerks forward, trying to curl in on himself at the news. No. Fuck no.  
“Fucking lying.”

Her inhale makes his eyes clench shut tighter, makes him suck spit through teeth as they grind as if he could drain his face- keep tears back by sheer will alone. “We-they gave you something the last time you came in, meds that shouldn’t mix, and you-“ a flick of wrist, the nurse is pushing bangs out of hair and dropping her gaze to the paperwork instead. “-you must’ve already presented then, possibly before or were near it. Do you remember being sick?”

He nods, not trusting himself to get out words that weren’t curses. Fuck. He still had Ian’s teeth scraping at his chest with every rattled inhale, could still feel a grin against his inner thigh as he pressed his knees together. Shit. Gallagher’s. Damn fucking bunnies. Barely an alpha, already staking a claim.

“My-I can’t have.” Mickey twists, the nurse nods. “You’re barely weeks along, and you-“ she glances his way again, he barely notices it as he bobs his head in a swallow. “I’m assuming you’re not yet mated, engaged or partnered. I apologize if all of this is news to you. But...you need to be on suppressants, strong birth control. We can’t put you in with others like this, instincts...”

And that’s how he gets sick for weeks a second time on the government’s dime. Wasn’t the chili.

This time’s worse.

Nightmares of blue eyes and red hair on a baby girl who falls apart into gore in his arms; vivid, body paralyzing dazes of Terry beating him purple...of Ian’s face if he knew.

Mickey snarls and fights and holds his own pretty well until release.

Mandy’s the one to watch as Mickey sniffs out his favored Gallagher, as he pops down the bus stop closest to the high school to rattle bleachers and kick bitches to the curb. Ian’s face lights him up, but he doesn’t give in to the guilt, just enjoys the lingering few weeks of the beta-synthetic cocktail. Enjoys the buzz and lack of anything but the pressure of cock in him after months and tries not to think about American Dreams. About white picket fences. An alpha off to war leaving him pregnant and waiting. Digs nails into own palms, or bites the truth by egging Ian into gripping him tighter. Hands in hair keep him grounded, the low noise of the outdoors reminds Mickey he’s not a basic omega.

Then Mickey finds out he’s not the only one who’s panting for dreamboats. That Ian’s collected pets while he was gone. There’s stabbing relief he made the right choice with that nurse. (Charlotte didn’t deserve to be stuck with a fresh, horrified omega as a patient, but she did a fucking good job of keeping him stabilized and hidden.)

Mickey snarls and barks, digs heels in about his jealousy and knows he’s going to get caught. Can feel the burn of a heat he’s put off way too long slicing him to shreds inside, and he wants to make sure. Wants to know. Wants with every inch.

Ian doesn’t give him that chance. Terry takes it away. A weekend trip that was supposed to finally be Mickey’s way of bringing up anything close to claiming without being overheard.

Instead he’s being forced to fuck another in front of his alpha. He can still feel the burn of soon Soon SOON bubbling in his veins, but maybe that’s the pulse of the pistol whipped temple. Maybe that’s tears in eyes he hides as he flips them.

Mickey gets sick again, feels another piece of his soul slide out of him in the shower that week. He can’t look Ian in the eye, no matter how much we wants to. Ian. Ian, his. Ian, who put words into Mickey’s mouth that were the truth, that let him take his aggression over the whole situation out on his face instead. Damnit, Ian.

The pre-wedding fuck has him shaking and shattering once they’re back home, and Svetlana has a knowing stare that keeps Mickey from doing anything other than drinking and pretending things are fine. Baby sure as shit isn’t his, omegas weren’t built like that. He knew any kid of his would be one he suffered through himself. Nurturing instincts were a bitch, and so were the words ‘4 years’. He could hear them bouncing around his head, Mickey could see he was being pulled into the Gallagher family orbit with every month that went by.

Fiona pulls him in with meals; the Ball family dig their claws in when the Alibi’s upstairs starts to be his business and Kev plays the idiot puppy well, but Mickey can tell there’s an alpha behind that bar, just a well kept and happy one. Mickey accepts their awkward friendship with his prickliness.

Fiona curls against him on the couch one night when his body’s rejecting another months worth of suppressants. Why Mickey thought anything a dealer would sell would be safe was beyond him. She’s laughing as he shudders and stutters out swears, holding a hand between both of her’s while the tv plays something he thinks is a Transformers movie. “I switched to birth control the second I could. Fuck hiding my status because it might make finding work harder. I couldn’t handle the lack of libido.” She’s giggling into his shoulder.  
“Libid what?”  
“Being horny, Mickey. Fuck, have you honestly not gone through a single heat?”  
He shakes his head, wants to shake her off too but he can’t find the energy or coordination to do so.  
“Damn, boy. Ian’s going to devour you whole the second he shows back up if you don’t keep doing this to yourself.”  
Mickey jerks, but she’s holding him down by sheer cuddle alone. Damn impressive. “Oh, sweetie, I didn’t mean to...I figured you two had...only reason you blend in with us so well.”  
Scent blending is rare and Mickey twitches again, drops his head back. “I always forget my nose doesn’t work until people point out shit like that. But no, he. We. No. There was nothing.”

Veronica and Fiona had squeezed the truth of the marriage out of him with Jell-O shots and a chocolate pie, damn traitorous tongue. But it meant she didn’t judge his fraudulent nuptials. Or if she did, she kept it really close to her chest.

“There was something. You just hadn’t got there yet.”


End file.
